


your hands can heal, your hands can bruise

by serenitysea



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, these feels are nothing we were ever trained for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 02:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2905526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenitysea/pseuds/serenitysea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>i don't love you but i always will</p><p><b>aka</b>: or the one where they find each other with the worst of news.</p><p>*</p><p>Because of course she didn’t track him down for good news. Because they don’t do the thing where they exchange telephone numbers. They find each other when the world — the one that they were forged in together like iron and made their home — begins to crumble and fall apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your hands can heal, your hands can bruise

**Author's Note:**

> WELP. this was written for nela, who requested: skyeward + i don't love you but i always will. 
> 
> \+ title from the civil war's _poison and wine_ (HELLA SADS, yo.)

Ward leaves first.  
  
*  
  
It’s ten years later and there’s a knock on the door.  
  
She opens it and nearly passes out.  
  
It’s Ward.  
  
He’s standing there with a somber look on his face, in combat blacks and she knows from how he’s positioned that there is a gun tucked into the back of his waistband.  
  
“ _No_ ,” Skye says, firmly intending to close the door and call the police.  
  
"Skye," he says, and his voice is that flat calm it always was just before he delivered bad news (it should be weird that she finds that comforting, right?). "It’s Coulson."  
  
*  
  
They don’t make it in time.  
  
They don’t make it in time because this is not the movies; this is real life and sometimes that means things are gritty and raw and uncomfortable and painful and _horrible_ because fate is a cruel mistress.  
  
Coulson doesn’t make it and they are too late.  
  
And Skye just… _loses_ it.  
  
She raises her fists to Ward in the middle of a SHIELD hospital and just starts attacking him.  
  
"How could you _do this_ to me?! _How_?”  
  
The first couple hits are free until it looks like she’s not going to wear herself out anytime soon. That’s when Ward has to dodge her and wait until she goes for a low punch to feint left and drag her back against his chest. “ _Stop_.”  
  
There is a live current of energy humming under her skin like she’s about to explode and Ward has a split second to be thankful that she’s been out of the business for a decade before locking his arms around her like iron.  
  
"You can’t win."  
  
He knows it’s a mistake before he’s finished saying the words.  
  
All the fight leeches from her body and he’s suddenly left holding Skye as she sags in defeat.  
  
"You’re right," she replies, and her voice has that same lifeless tone it did when she announced she was leaving and never coming back. "I can’t."  
  
Ward cautiously loosens his grip until she walks away.  
  
She doesn’t look back.  
  
*  
  
Skye finds him four and a half years later.  
  
He’s been working with a blisteringly expensive private security group based in New York when he comes home to find her sitting on his couch, in the dark.  
  
It would be gratifying to say that Skye had the element of surprise here — lights off, no name on the apartment, ridiculous over the top alarm system — but the truth of the matter is: he smells her perfume when he walks in the door.  
  
Ward thinks better of it and detours to the kitchen to grab the bottle of merlot on the counter and two wine glasses. He sets one down in front of Skye and flicks on the lights. She looks vaguely annoyed to have had her cover blown so easily.  
  
"So," he pours more than is polite for a social visit. "What happened?"  
  
Because of course she didn’t track him down for good news. Because they don’t do the thing where they exchange telephone numbers. They find each other when the world — the one that they were forged in together like iron and made their home — begins to crumble and fall apart.  
  
This, he knows, is no different.  
  
Skye takes a deep breath as if to steel herself for the worst. “Fitz.”  
  
The wineglass shatters in his hand from the crushing pressure of his fist curling into a regret that trickles down his hands, forever staining the carpet.  
  
*  
  
When she’s in her office working on a press release for the UN Ambassador (not because she knows squat about writing releases but because she needs direct access to his computer and the mainframe within), Ward waltzes into the conference room like he owns it.  
  
He shoots the guards stationed at the door and nods at her impatiently. “C’mon.”  
  
She glances at the fallen men and sighs irritably, packing up her computer in a hurry. “Would it have killed you to send an email?”  
  
"That can be hacked," He reminds her (unnecessarily, she thinks), and sweeps the papers off the desk, dumping them into her messenger bag. "We don’t have much time."  
  
Despite the urgency of the situation she freezes suddenly, face devoid of all color. She sways on her feet alarmingly, and Ward has to move quickly to steady her.  
  
They start talking at the same time:  
  
"— Skye, what the hell —"  
  
"— I didn’t even think about it, oh god, who is it —"  
  
"— I’ll tell you when we get out of here, but we really do have to be going —"  
  
"— if you don’t tell me _right now_ , I am not leaving with you —”  
  
"— _dammit_ , Skye —”  
  
"— I need a name, or I’m not going —"  
  
"— how is this going to help us get out of here in one piece?"  
  
  
Her eyes are damp and frightened when she glances up at him, completely disregarding the vicegrip he’s got on her arm. “It’s Jemma, isn’t it.”  
  
Ward sweeps the room again with his practiced gaze, preferring to look for danger where a threat has been neutralized rather than face the storm in her eyes. When it becomes rapidly clear that she is not joking and will not budge, he grits his teeth in frustration.  
  
"Yes."  
  
And Skye goes practically catatonic.  
  
There are footsteps echoing in the hallway outside and soldiers pounding on the door for entry and she does not move.  
  
"I’m sorry," he whispers, hoisting her over his shoulder. "I didn’t have a choice."  
  
They go through the glass windows and plummet thirty stories down with nothing more than a rope and his steady hands to keep them alive.  
  
*  
  
Jemma lives.  
  
But to be honest, Jemma hasn’t really been living since Fitz died.

She will not see them after she’s released from surgery and it’s a long three hours while  she speaks with her solicitor at length. Afterwards she is insistent on talking to them together (much to the nurses’ dismay) and looks so incredibly tired that they are unable to refuse.  
  
"You two need to stop this."  
  
Out of everything that could have come out of her mouth, that was the last thing they had been expecting.  
  
"Jemma," Skye begins, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. "It’s not —"  
  
"— Don’t you _dare_ tell me it’s not that simple, Skye.”  
  
Skye closes her mouth, glancing at Ward anxiously.  
  
"What is it you need from us?" He gently asks, redirecting her attention.  
  
"You still have a chance," Jemma closes her eyes, sighing with the kind of pain that is visible even if you weren’t looking for it. "Don’t waste it."  
  
The nurse comes back in and glares at them hard. “She needs her rest.”  
  
With one last look at Jemma, Ward places his hand on Skye’s back and escorts from the room. They make it outside and get as far as the benches lining the sidewalk.  
  
"I don’t know how to do this anymore," Skye suddenly confesses, burying her face in her hands. "I can’t do this without them."  
  
"She’s supposed to outlive us all," Ward agrees somberly while mentally rearranging a few things so that he can supervise Jemma’s care for as long as she remains in the hospital.  
  
"Every time you show up, someone is dying." Skye turns to look at him, the broken devastation painted on her face. "What the hell, Ward?"  
  
"Skye," he laughs brokenly, and it seems horrifying that he should be laughing at time like this. "Who else would you have listened to?"  
  
She opens her mouth to reply and can’t think of a single answer.  
  
"Right," he nods. "That’s why I always find you."  
  
The wind picks up and she burrows deeper into her jacket, trying to fight off the shivers that threaten to overtake her — the bitter cold and shock of the day’s events do not mix well with the professional blazer she’d thrown on this morning.  
  
Skye gropes for an answer and settles for gripping one of his hands tightly. She thinks of Jemma and how painfully small and _tired_ she’d looked in that hospital bed and it makes her want to cry at the injustice of it all.  
  
"I guess if," she gasps horribly around the words, sadness ripping at her heart and decimating her on a bench outside an otherwise normal looking hospital, "I had to hear it from anyone, I’m glad it’s you."  
  
For the girl who still runs whenever life gets too _real_ and can’t seem to stay in one place long enough to ever be found easily — it’s as much of an admission and declaration as he is ever going to get.  
  
"I love you too." Ward pulls her close, and pretends not to notice the tears dampening his shirt.   
  
And Skye’s laugh is a strangled, terrible thing — but it is the best thing he’s heard in almost twenty years.

**Author's Note:**

> \+ [tumblr](http://b-isforbombshell.tumblr.com).


End file.
